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Literary Hatchetman

STATUS: Malfunctioning Space Toilet (favorite death post in RPG) : roleplayerguild.com/posts/4… 6 yrs ago
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6 yrs ago
Current Malfunctioning Space Toilet (favorite death post in RPG) : roleplayerguild.com/posts/4…
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8 yrs ago
Example of a "Character Flaw": roleplayerguild.com/posts/32..
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Bio





"Character Flaw"

Keystone's Daydream

Checking for Mental Intrusion

The Power Of Pain Compels You

The Greater Good

Burial & Origin of James Mandingo Grady



Most Recent Posts

In 🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1 → 5 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Ash Holloway
Location: Quarantine (Briefing -> Conference Room)
Skills: N/A


Ash looked up to Thana with a hair of confusion evident in his expression. What she had just told him seemed a little out of context for the sentiment he had put across, at least to his ears. The few words he spoke were about gratitude; past that note, they were about contributing to their community and the ways that those in charge felt they could, were they allowed to remain. Maybe it was his delivery. He was ever marked by his former occupation, tending to speak as a man with forward aptitude because it was generally had been required of him for everyone else's sake. The mention of promotion especially quirked a brow. What exactly was going on here that they were so nervous about? Perhaps he missed something in the subtext someplace. It would take a time to figure some of the nuances of this place and its people out, it seemed.

Panama began to lead the former Newnanites back into the Conference Room. Ash followed along behind Thana, giving the occasional glance down to her leg as if looking for something. Her recovery was remarkable. Most people would still be confined to a bed with a constant feed of medication, or nowadays just dead. Willpower and necessity made for medical rarities sometimes. Having something to live for did wonders that way, too.

Returning to the Conference Room, Ash didn't even consider looking around the room, nor speaking to anyone else. There was a lot of information briefed to them and it was a mammoth amount to process. The crisp and clear, factual, military method made it easier for him to swallow. The images and reports gave him an amount of closure as well. Still, a lot to process. He did have something that would help him process damn near anything thrown at him. It was a hand, extended toward him from a couch, inviting him to join the woman behind it. Ash accepted the invitation with a quiet smile. He didn't particularly feel like talking, either, just taking her hand and settling down beside Thana. He put his arm around her and pulled her close. Vaguely, he understood that there was something on the television nearby. Ash didn't care. He was looking into her eyes, oblivious to or uncaring of her scars, just taking her in. Ash had meant what he said before, when he saw her. He was home.


Thalia Carmichael
Location: Quarantine (Conference Room)
Skills: N/A


Everybody else came filing back out. Thalia didn't know if she wanted to talk to someone to find out what was up, but as it turned out nobody wanted to volunteer in the first place. Beatrice brushed past like she didn't feel like speaking. Thalia could respect this. She could talk to Thana. They had a lot of catching up to do. No, that was also a bust, because she was soon cuddling on the couch with another person she might have spoken with, the Army Captain she had been training alongside. He had plenty of questions for the guy who somehow got four of the most stubborn she had known to do what he told them to do. At least in theory. But the bond between Navy and that guy was not something to challenge.

Everybody had somebody. Even the outcast kid was making eyes at the local girl, Checkmark. And the two old guys? Well ok, they were pretty inseparable from the get go. And now they had ballerina chick's baby boy to gawk at, or at least Wayne did. And lest we forget the two bald women who clung to one another. Thalia had half a mind to give a suggestive wink in their general direction and never let on which one she was aiming at, just to fuck with them. But nah, that's not who she was, unless she was really, really bored. And as far as women went, she had really only gone for two, ever. And she really wasn't looking to shop around, regardless of gender. She was already afraid that this kind of lifestyle might make her weak. The last thing she needed was another emotional attachment that could be exploited.

Instead, Thalia did what she had been doing best for almost the past week. While everyone else settled in with their perspective other halves and/or hetero lifemates, new friends, old friends, and people they were trying to score with, the one-armed angel went back to the area that had been using for exercise, hit the floor, and began pounding out knucklepoint pushups in rapid succession. If nothing else, she loved this shiny new metal arm for helping her get a fuller training regimen back.


Hank Wright
Location: Quarantine (Conference Room)
Skills: N/A


"Hey, gang's back together! Look at that," chided Hank, watching the other two from his group make their way over to the couches and such near the television. He reflected on their meeting a few months back. Hank wasn't in the mood to take on others into their party of two, and dear sweet and fuzzy angels in heaven was History Channel here annoying as all get out, but when it came down to it, they were some fairly stand-up people. It was a rough start. Now that they were all on the same page about things, if not exactly the same paragraph, this might be the last chance for everyone to just sit back and enjoy a fine family film like "History of the World, Part One", before they settled into something more workaday in this big, inviting settlement and ignored each other like neighbors who forgot to return an errant lawnmower or who heard some marital spat the night before from across the street.

Instead, he focused his energies to making commentary about the movie, such as getting baby Jamie's attention and pointing at the screen, saying, "Alright listen up, ya little ankle-biter: That guy is Gregory Hines. He tap dances real good, right? And they only have him doing one dance in this entire move. That's just not using your assets, right there." Or even speaking along with parts of the movie, such as, "He is a eunuch. He is a eunuch. He is dead," before looking back to the kid and assuring him, "Aw, don't worry. You'll get that when you're a little older. Or have your pops explain it to you." He looked a little uncertain for a second, before attempting to shift the focus elsewhere. "Hey look! Movie!" he said, nodding and pointing at the TV.
In 🦄 Darker Than Black - Merged With T.S. → 5 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Caesar & Keystone

Location: Grimm Indiana (El Asilo/The Nuthouse!)
Skills: Pistols
Skills: Body Conditioning, Athletics, Stamina, Xiaolin Techniques


It's funny how things worked out sometimes. Caesar hadn't expected to see either of these two in Grimm, Indiana, let alone together in the place that he had been, for lack of a better term, summoned toward. While confusion was a big part of it, the coincidence did serve to mentally reinforce the notion that something of importance was happening here. Apparently, something that involved his daughter and whatever secrets were floating about in this creepyass town. At the moment though, none of that mattered. He heard his daughter's voice telling him to find the stairs, and now swearing at him. Yup, that was his M'hija. He must be getting close; the sound seemed to echo in his actual ears as well.

Upon getting the information and go-ahead to make the door bend to their will, Caesar looked to his much larger, far more British associate, grunting and nodding in the direction of the offending portal to the stairwell. The response was spirited and immediate. Keystone also heard something, though it was uncertain exactly what it was. All he knew was that his possibly recently insane boss claimed to hear the voice of his dead daughter urging him to come here and find the stairs so far, they found stairs, and now there was a yell from behind a stuck door. He was now steadfast in the belief that something was happening, if not exactly the face value answer. He'd figure it out as things revealed themselves. For now, open the door.

The problem was, no matter how spirited and no matter how immediate the response was, Keystone was ever the Big Bad Wolf, doomed to blow ineffectively against the house of brick and mortar. He gave his best effort, leaning against it, really gripping hard and bearing down. He funneled his Chi. he grunted, strained, and tuned every muscle of his powerful form upon the comparatively frail-seeming door, but to no avail. It stood as a bulwark against mighty Keystone and his pecs of steel.

The big man had never been beaten by a mere door before. He recalled the time that he ripped one off its hinges and beat a man almost completely to death with a door tougher than this one. No, this made no sense. Of course this was an an old asylum. Even the doors were acting crazy He turned to Caesar with an alarmed, confused look on his face, and was promptly, albeit nonverbally, instructed to move to one side. The grizzled Mexican would not be denied his moment. There had to be a way to outflank the door, that evil portcullis that stood between him and his daughter. Caesar hadn't time to think. He needed to get down there. With a sneer upon his lips, Caesar raised his .45 handgun. Keystone gave a quick, "Shite. Plug your ears, then," to Cecily before his more senior partner fired a single round into the locking mechanism at a downward angle, then booted the damned thing open with a flurry of shrapnel. "PAPI'S HERE!" reverberated along the stairwell, and with smoking gun in hand Caesar stepped through.



In 🦄 Soulless Regency - Merged With T.S. → 5 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Vladimir Alexandrov

Location: Gretna Green
Skills: Fal'shbort (Passive), Tretiy Glaz (Passive), English


The comparative sense of wrongness and urgency in the air seemed to increase. There were screams in the distance, echoing the closer sense of foreboding if not exactly the ambient sounds nearby. The haze that now permeated everything around Vladimir was not especially helpful in this regard either, seeming only to magnify whatever pressing preternatural events were unfolding. Perhaps this all had some normal, mundane, rational explanation, and eventually cooler heads would prevail, but Vladimir knew the power of appearances. Smoke and mirrors were his stock and trade. The value of appearance and setting a mood was the difference between winning and losing a crowd; the mob could be fickle, even dangerous if influenced properly. The stage in Gretna Green was being set by unknown hands, perhaps Providence itself, for something potentially ugly, even if Soulless were not involved.

There was a more serious look to Vladimir's face as he hefted the body of the fallen German fellow. He gave the other, living German fellow a look, regarding him with some consideration as he introduced himself and mentioned that Ludwig had a living mentor, then began helping to clear a path for him to follow. "Truly? Is for good. Master Zimmer has pupil under care of Circus, must be given thought for. Vhen this is over, ve should find." His words were a little subdued, for a Bazhooli. Maybe it had something to do with him carrying a corpse, or the general attitude of the town around him. In truth, he was bracing for something to happen.

Vlad followed Virginia and Ny into the church; in turn being followed by his fine horse (who was given a command earlier to keep at his heels) ad immediately began looking for a place to set down the lifeless husk of Ludwig, wrapped in cloth and rope. "Perhaps, vill make vith the formal greetings in little bit of timings, da? For now, dark business of our being here must take center stage. Is for sad. I make intense introductioning." he confided. Okay, the living, the dead, and the horse were all upon holy ground. It was time to brace for whatever was to unfold. Vlad quietly set down the body and crossed his arms in front of them, surreptitiously keeping hands where he could get at his many sharp implements upon his noble personage.
In 🦄 Machiavellian Masquerade - Chapter 1 → 5 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Dr. Swamp
≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎
Location: Shadowell Manor: Attic (Laboratory)
Skills: Intelligence
Hit Points: 2
≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎


A slight smile crossed Swamp's face when the houseman, Quinton, gave him leave to continue gathering what information he could from the remains of Lord Bardolf. That fact gave further confirmation to a suspicion that the Doctor had from earlier. He regarded the taller man with raised eyebrow, seeing him in a slightly different light. "Yes, yes of course." He looked back to the splayed open cadaver, the major organs arranged in bowls nearby. "Hmm, one moment."

Swamp limped back to the operating table. He arranged one or two of the bowls, mumbling all the while. "... appendix, heart, kidney one and kidney two, large intestine, liver, lungs one and two, spleen, stomach... should I check for...? Maybe. ...maybe." The astute observer might notice that he was putting the Lord's internals in alphabetical order, for whatever benefit it might have. "No, no. Immaterial to the present issue," he said, motioning in front of himself. After a couple of seconds, he realized that he was pantomiming writing something, as if the idea manifested in his hands before he spoke it. "Of course."

Swamp went to the rolling tray next to the table and used it to bear down on. From his belongings, he produced a writing implement and a notebook. Bold, sweeping script flowed onto the page, summarizing the postmortem examination in official wording, followed by a more plainly phrased cause of death, underlined, and signed:

Doctor Amscribblescribbleon, in interim Dr. Swamp

There was the slightest pause, looking at his signature. It was an understandable habit, putting one's signature down on an official medical document, or one that would have to suffice for the meantime to keep proper records. He did have to mark out the proper name, however, and replace it with his alias for the event, owing to secrecy. They would know in due time anyway, he surmised. Plus, in the event of his own absence later, be it misadventure or deliberate action of less ethical persons, there was evidence remaining of the true fate of the Lord of the Manor. "If I might have a co-signature of witness, Mr. Quinton? Perhaps you as well, Chanteuse? Given as you did assist, which I do dearly appreciate." Swamp showed Amaranthine the paper, then left it on the table and backed from it to allow access for both Quinton and the Chanteuse. He shuffled back around to the bowls, pausing over the opened and inspected heart. Giving the bowl a spin, he watched it go around and around, wobbling just a little from the not-quite-perfect circle in which it rotated. "This is truly an interesting turn of events, is it not? Especially considering the timing. Hmm."

The heart was still spinning on the table, slowing a little, showing the squishy details pointed out from before in a continuing turn. Swamp vocalized a thought that had been nagging him. "Sir? If it suits the will of the House; my diagnostic talents lay in areas other than just anatomy. With the approval of the resident Mechanician, might I be permitted to examine the motorized conveyance that fatally malfunctioned earlier this evening? I suspect something may be learned."
In 🦄 The Paradoxical Emendation - Merged With T.S. → 5 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Gilbert Summers
Location: Babylon Fortress, Cairo, Egypt
Skills: N/A


It looked like plans were going on without Gilbert's input, which might actually be a good thing. He didn't disagree with the intended business at hand, though a good chunk of him wished that he could take a more active role in the endeavor. He had wanted to supply back at the Plantation before they had gone on this excursion, but the necessity of the moment saw him joining the rest of the group here in Egypt. These points and a couple unspoken concerns had Gil wishing he had something to occupy his mind, or at least his hands, for the time being. Linguistic skills aside, Peter was best equipped to deal with the here and now, or more accurately, this particular here and now, seeing as he was native to it. At this point, Gil figured that he'd be in England or the United States pursuing a teaching career to pass the lifetimes, under the name Hawkins. (He did like reading R. L. Stevenson.)

If he was not going to be of more proactive use outside of this place, perhaps he could be of some precautionary use inside of it. This place used to be a fortress a very, very long time ago. About around the time that he was kicking around in these parts, point of fact. The centuries did start to run together after a while. Maybe he needed to eat more fish. Brain food, right? Eh, well between is history and his proficiency as a warrior, perhaps he could throw together a decent enough game plan in case things got too hot here. Escape route, battle plan, fortification plan, or just good, old fashioned tactics, just in case. As for Sophia's question, Gil felt that the more steady and pragmatic of the Emendators remaining should field that one, stating flatly, "Gio, I shall leave that to you."



James Grady
Location: Babylon Fortress, Cairo, Egypt -> Following Peter
Skills: N/A


James was kidding about heaving a sack of laundry and acting like an extra in a theatrical presentation of "Song of the South", but it looked like fate had stepped in the moment that he opened his big mouth in an attempt to be funny. Well, big sack of crap to lug about (or not) aside, if they were to make it with their little ruse, James was going to have to play the role of the subordinate. Considering his personality was ordinarily a little larger than life, he might even be up for an Academy Award for the bullshit he was prepared to endure for his fellows, be they Emendators or Paradoxes. Then, there was the nagging thought that there was probably still a Big Nasty out there somewhere that apparently had a bent for offing people like him. If they somehow knew that the guy they ripped to shreds was right back in the same place, like a paradox of a Paradox, how badly would they be licking their chops this time? Somehow, the pair of knives he had on his person just didn't seem to be very useful.

Prior to exiting the fortress, James held out the bottle of tequila he still had with him to Andromeda, who had mentioned a drink before, saying, "Yuh huh, we try and be quick. I ain't partial to this field trip anyhow." He then turned to follow Peter, wherever he might wish to take him. James was careful to make sure that he didn't walk exactly next to him, trailing a little back. At least a half step, if Peter wished to speak with him, but sometimes more. It would not do extremely well for him to be viewed as an equal. Even in North Africa, that might raise questions that they didn't have time to address.

As Peter told his summary involving a group of people being spontaneously branded on a trip to a dig site, the only thing he could really think to add was, "That's funny. While back, that woulda sounded strange, too." He shrugged, "Weird how shit works out sometimes, huh?"


In 🦄 Deeper Than The Sands - Merged With T.S. → 5 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Reginald Keystone


Location: Athribis (Underground)
Skills: N/A


The calm and rational point made by Nora backed up the observation of another of their intellectuals, and by taking a different route of study. If Reginald were not convinced of the course of action before, hearing it from their resident mathematician. Reginald was a man of learning in his own right, enough so to know that his arena of study wasn't useful to them at this particular hour and deferring to the rest of his Fellowship was the wiser course of action. Recognizing the value in her observation, he lay his finger on the side of his nose and pointed in her direction. He may have even responded with a venturesome remark of approval, but his thought process on the matter was shuffled off to the wayside by the more colorful of their group, Gene.

To his credit, the Lord Major did take the American woman's advice and use shorter sentences. "You shall have to remind me why you are here again, Miss Benaszewski. Take your time, please." Though he meant the remark to be cold and mildly scathing, he had to admit it made him think, despite their little emergency. Circumstances were a bit fuzzy, and as it turned out, so was the air around them, it seemed.

Shifting his attention back to the other question at hand, he replied with a hearty, "Indeed I do, Mr. Zalil! Perhaps we should vacate... my, my, what have we here?" His suggestion was cut short by the recent arrival of yet another American. By this rate, the former colonies might have emptied out before year's end. "I am an authority, sir, and I daresay I shan't have you threatening my associate. Our business is ours. You may 'merry lamb' to your heart's desire." More broadly addressing the area, he continued, "Gentlemen, ladies; let us attend to our affairs."

Haring Reddish


Location: Benha (Elite Deck, Thief's(?) Room)
Skills: Observation, Investigation/Espionage


It was all well and good that the place was missing its former resident. The opportunity to do a fast and hard-hitting toss of the place was upon them, and that was all the motivation that Reddish needed to do precisely that. So long as he was the only one in or near the private water closet, he figured that he might as well start there. Good hiding spots could be found in a lavatory for those who needed one, but they were few in number. A person likewise skilled in subterfuge might make short work of such hidey-holes if properly motivated. And say what you will about the Corporal, he always seemed to be motivated.

A brief glance about the usual spots one might secret away a hand-held object bore nothing for the first few seconds. Nothing in the wastepaper basket underneath the bag, nothing rattling inside of a hollow-bottomed soap dish, nothing attached to the back of Le Crappier, though while he was on his knees checking, Reddish's eyes did detect a glint of something reflective underneath the water basin. He couldn't quite get a good view, but a tactile search made it out to be a metallic object secured to the bottom with tape. This must be it! Or if it is not, then it was something worthy of immediate note. Pulling it free, the Corporal confirmed his initial guess and broke into an immediate and disarming grin of accomplishment.

With the tape-covered timepiece in one hand and still upon his knees, the bubbly and eccentric Corporal Haring D. Reddish turned and rose, the beginning of an exclamation upon his lips, "H... !" that never quite got out before he slammed the back of his very dignified noggin into the underside of the wash basin. A thousand stars exploded in Reddish's vision and he bonelessly collapsed onto the floor, a shaky darkness overtaking him.

He would still have considered this a win, were he conscious enough to celebrate it.



In 🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1 → 5 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Ash Holloway
Location: Quarantine (Briefing)
Skills: N/A


"Arrangements were made to offset these," speaking about costs for an extensive search. It's what struck Ash first. True, nothing comes free in any world, but survivor recovery? Granted, that might apply if they were part of the Mexico Beach community, which they weren't yet officially and definitely weren't while they were being searched for. Thinking logically on it, the only one who might have given any portion of a rat's ass, let alone enough to make arrangements for incurred expenses, was the only one who knew they were out there: Thana. Depending upon how the local economy worked here, had she just indebted herself to her own people on their behalf? He would have to ask her about it later.

The description of Newnan was a little harder to swallow. He was there. He knew what happened. He got one hell of a view of their home collapsing as he navigated around it in his Hordebuster, sweeping for survivors. He got to see the earth open up and swallow everything they had worked so hard for, bled for, that many of them had died for. The collapse. The fires. I his mind's eye, Ash was back there, observing the hell that was made of it all.

Ash didn't know why he was handed pictures of Newnan, post destruction. Upon being told what it was though, he had to look. It was crushing. This was their home. A dream of Leann's that he fully supported, and later took over. It was doing well, too. Crops coming in, people getting back a piece of what they lost, building new lives. He skimmed through the images quickly, but it was burned into his mind like he spent time memorizing them. Why he passed them on for others to view was beyond him. Maybe they needed closure, too. Newnan was dead. On spark of hope that came from it was the recovery of his engineering notes, and James's agricultural ones. Those were to be the blueprints of a secondary site in case they needed to expand. Or help others to rebuild. Those and the other records were part of the proof that they were a decent, ethical people that tried to help humanity thrive under the most adverse of conditions.

Somehow, hearing the full reason why Newnan fell didn't make him feel much better about it. While learning that there wasn't anything he could have done about it, he didn't assign blame to anyone, including himself. Not for this. What troubled him about it was, for a brief moment, he thought that it might explain away some of the psychological symptoms that he had been afflicted with. The problem was, he wasn't overly sensitive to things like that, and they had been plaguing him for a long while. No, it was still something that would remain with him. The toxic air just exacerbated it for a time. Well, more than ever, Ash knew who he was. Whatever had knocked him off his rocker was tucked firmly away, still part of him but no longer trying to influence. It always was part of him. Realizing that allowed him to overcome it.

The last part was surprisingly relieving to hear, in a bittersweet way. They had recovered and properly interred some of their dead, specifically the ones that had passed outside of Newnan's walls. He had no idea who Lola Holler was, but he knew the others. James. Yeah, when quarantine was over, he was paying his respects. Glancing about the room, Ash note that people were looking at him. Trying to read him still? It didn't matter. He had nothing to hide. His face was, as always, toward the stoic side, though his eyes were red-rimmed and telling of sorrow; not the open grieving of fresh loss, but the memory of a highly cherished what was.

"I would greatly appreciate paying my respects. Thank you." His voice was solid, with weary undertones, like a man placed under the burden of heavy responsibility. Not unlike the officer he once was. "You've done us a great service. I hope that our records can help Camp Mexico Beach thrive. We'll talk about how we can do the same, if you all are willing." Granted, he was still operating under the hope that all of the Newman group was deemed worthy, by whatever litmus test was used to judge them. That was the next hurdle to overcome, and he had a feeling that the results were likewise tucked away in their files already. These people seemed organized. Very.

Thalia Carmichael
Location: Quarantine (Conference Room)
Skills: N/A


Thalia was still leaning against the wall after the others walked past and had their own session in Briefing. She made a decent enough showing of keeping tabs on the people in the Conference Room, but in reality, he mind was buzzing with what she had learned. There was a lot that went right, a lot that went wrong, and a ton of coincidences that brought them in the position they all were in. Part of her wondered what would have happened if she never got a signal on her old company satellite phone a year and a half ago. She might never have known what happened to her family with any certainty, nor her battle-sisters, and she never wold have met these off people that she had been with for a while now. Though Thalia wasn't the overly expressive type, she did sometimes consider telling them that she regarded them highly, both as friends and as being a vital part to her survival strategy. The last part - not as touching. But it was high praise from a woman who was a confirmed survivalist.

Maybe she wouldn't have lost Lola, though. Maybe she stayed with the eccentric Kiwi in her fortress of iron and they cleared the path all the way back to her family's place in Mexico, breaking through whatever trouble others were warned about. A tank was a hell of a force multiplier, this day and age. That was a hard "what if" to deal with. Things were what they were. This was something different than to which she was accustomed, and it was all a little uncomfortable for her still. But she had friends, even if she kept them at a distance, that she wouldn't have ever known if those thins hadn't come to pass. And more was opening up because of it, too.

In truth, Thalia was also a little nervous. What did she have that any of these people could use? She was basically the outdoor equivalent of an assassin. Her foray into Eden taught her a lot about herself and her willingness to take lives. Not just that, but she could still the righteous fire burning in her from all the way back then, knowing that she was killing people who deserved it. She was getting a taste for it. If felt good. It didn't used to, but in her defense she had come across a group that was downright ambitious in their pursuit of human suffering. She killed their leader with all the moral ambiguity of a lady peeling an orange, and felt great afterward. Even took a couple of bullets in trade. There was something inside of her that was way too much like her uncle Caesar. How would that be of use to a military run community? Would she even be able to find a place among these people? how long before she was pining to be back outside of these walls, fire-hardening a freshly cut spear and cooking a feral dog over a firepit? Yeah, and fuck this air conditioning. It made people weak.

No, she promised that she would give this place a chance. She had motivation to do so now. She wouldn't allow herself to get weak. Thalia would train. Harder and longer than ever, until she got her edge honed back, better than before. She could decide what to do from there. For now, she waited. One more day.

Hank Wright
Location: Quarantine (Conference Room)
Skills: N/A


"Well hell yeah, we teach the little guy how to fish." That would mean that they learn all about it before. Now, hunting he could do. Fishing, the more relaxing of the manly, food-producing sports? Nothing beyond putting a line in the water and hoping for the best. But hey, that's why they were there, right? Right! That and the other thing. It was a massive other thing that he was just now contemplating in fullness as he expected to be dead long before getting here, but it counted. The whole "hope for humanity" bent aside, Hank was giving specific notice to the attention Wayne was drawing on account of that little baby boy taking a liking to him. Maybe the baby just had good taste. Or was just as crazy as the rest of them. Back in the day, both of them had their own families. That kind of instinct never goes away. Just like Wayne, Hank was marked by the experience of being a father. Anyone who was would have noticed what was going on. What got Hank was the fact that some of these people seemed surprised.

Hank took a glance back at the other two in their survival party, Nigel and Erica. They hadn't spoken a whole lot since Quarantine began, ad that was easy to figure out. The same stubborn, mildly insane qualities that kept them alive out there were hardly endearing. Now that they didn't have to huddle close to keep from being found and eaten by Assholes, both dead and living, there was little reason to tolerate each other. They weren't going to just evaporate, though. They would be behind the same walls for a while, accident barring an unfortunate death. Might as well extend an olive branch. "Hey there ...ah, Sportacus! Apocalypse Barbie! Why don't you c'mon over here and join us, huh? Can you really say NO to an adorable baby and a Mel Brooks movie? Bring it on in, guys."
In 🦄 Darker Than Black - Merged With T.S. → 5 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Caesar & Keystone

Location: Grimm Indiana (El Asilo/The Nuthouse!)
Skills: Observation, Tracking
Skills: Observation, Security Procedures


Keystone was coming to grips with the fact that his child's maternal grandfather was probably having a psychotic break of some sort. Now, the problem with this was, when a normal person has a shortcircuit of this nature, a couple of imposing gentlemen in crisp, white, shortsleeve overshirts would politely but firmly stuff them into a self-hugging coat and pump them so full of Thorazine that they turn into a mumbling, oozing mess, suitable for stamping and filing away with everyone else whose cheese has slipped off of their cracker; whereas Caesar was a legend in his own time, setting the standard for unrelenting violence spanning decades of horrifying albeit creatively handled, epic rendings of flesh. True, now that he was in his later years, a stretch of relative peace and legitimacy of his business might have earned him accusations of losing a step, but he was not a man with whom to fuck. It would take several men in crisp, white, shirtsleeve overshirts to take this man down, even if they caught him drunk and asleep. And if that was an exaggeration in the slightest, it was hard and fast fact that Keystone himself, who had trained his body into a powerful, living weapon, did not want to pit himself against the man in a fair fight unless he absolutely had to, size difference be damned. Hulk vs. Thor, except that the old Mexican would be channeling Quetzalcoatl instead of that oddly speaking hammerguy.

Or to put it simply, if Caesar went berserk, there would be no stopping him without massive collateral damage.

Now that he was hearing voices, specifically the voice of his recently deceased daughter, while tearing through a sleepy little town in Indiana behind the wheel of a security company SUV chock full of surveillance gear, weapons, ammo, and various sundries of professional badassery, Keystone was pretty sure that, unless he was going through some serious Twilight Zone shit, he was going to be on the wrong side of a police shootout. If, IF they got caught. He was going to follow this man exactly as he promised that he would, take care of his family, and ensure everyone's safety to the best of his ability. And if he possibly could, have another binge session of iZombie with the coroner chick. The show had grown on him.

On the other hand, Caesar had his brain full of interesting if somewhat vague ideas about what he was going to to do any unlucky fuckstick who got in his way, up to and including pulling their hearts out, barehanded, through their ass. It would involve removing his ballistic jacket, granted, but he hadn't gotten into the habit of wearing one of those until fairly recently anyway. Those things tended to get in the way of more delicate, agility-minded activities. Like pulling someone's heart out through their ass. Okay, so maybe that was a little extreme, but it did serve to illustrate the mindset that he was getting into at the time - Driven, volatile, protective, brutal. Beyond reason or comprehension, his daughter was leading him to this place. Yes, it was nuts. It was supposed to be nuts. There was a trailing thread of thought that he had finally lost his shit entirely and this was not going to end well. But to hell with this. If he was going out, he was going out like he probably should have years and years ago; snarling defiantly and covered in someone else's blood. M'hija deserved no less than his brutal and screaming best.

The SUV pulled up to the Asylum's entrance, fishtailing slightly as Caesar slammed on the brakes and jerked the wheel to the side. In case they had to leave in a hurry, he didn't want to have to worry about that whole "turning around" bullshit. Without saying a word, he mechanically opened the door and slid out, feet setting roughly on the ground amid the hazy, smoky environment. He immediately went to the hatchback door and opened it, picking through the basic tools of his occupation plus a few of his personal favorites. Keystone came back around to join him, concern notably on his face as he saw his boss and personal mentor gearing up for urban warfare. Caesar could sense the man's hesitation. "You have my back, Keystone. I know. This could all be bullshit, I know. Not that far gone. You see me going full off the deep end, do something bad? Like, really bad, not the other shit - you end me. ¿Me entiendes? No shame. Doing me a favor, si? Put a bullet in me and aim real good with it."

Keystone nodded his head, acquiescing to the man's request. He might could do that, if it meant saving other lives that needed saving. When offered anything additional from the trunk full of goodies, Keystone responded, "Nah, Caesar. I ain't as good with hardware as you, y'understand. Take me a torch, now," pointing at an LED flashlight. "This place don't look like it's been kept up since slicin' bread caught on, if ya get me."

Caesar did indeed get him, though purely by context. The first part being whatever the hell a "torch" was, the way he meant it. He passed over a smallish LED light with a jacket clip, standard issue item since the heavy, old-school MagLites were phased out. Also one for himself, just in case. Additionally, he picked up a couple more sharp things to make himself feel better. Tiny consideration came in when he hefted two of his trademark machetes. They were the ones he had at his baby girl's funeral; he had just kept them nearby. These he strapped onto his back, over his coat. It was silly of him, probably, but he grabbed a light pack and threw a few things into it; two company issue 9mm pistols, and a few clips, holsters, and a couple more knives. Though he didn't say it, if this really was his baby girl, and she was in trouble, and he really wasn't totally nuts, she was going to feel better with something to kill someone else with. If he had a bottle of hot sauce, that would be better. Can't have everything.

The two of them exploded into the lobby of the Asylum, guns in hand. The adrenaline of the hour coursing through the both of them, they didn't quite notice anything resembling a map or directions, signs, or even those colored lines on the floor that pointed you toward places in various medical facilities. Nary a one. Now, if there was someone that needed to get shot and/or eviscerated, they were right on top of that. Okay, running in blind. Caesar took point. He heard voices coming from somewhere very nearby, and held up a hand so that his lumbering Cockney bodyguard would hold back and shut up. Yeah, those were voices. One voice that he knew he had heard before, bitching about an elevator, of all things. "Hura," he absently growled. Stepping into view, he called in a clear voice, "STAIRS?" because to hell with that "Oh, you're here? What an amazing coincidence!" cliche of a conversation. Yes they were there. No, it probably wasn't a coincidence. And he more or less trusted that these people wouldn't immediately shoot them. Either they could help or they could get out of the way. Part One of help, if that was their option, was the location of the stairs.

In an almost boyish fashion, Keystone waved his free hand, cheerfully giving a salutation of, "Oi there, Miss Cecily!", causing Caesar to glance back at him like he was nuts. Keystone followed up with, "Yeah, stairs. We're in an 'urry."
In 🦄 Soulless Regency - Merged With T.S. → 5 yrs ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
Vladimir Alexandrov

Location: Gretna Green
Skills: Fal'shbort (Passive), Tretiy Glaz (Passive), English


It was a sad, sad reminder that day. Vladimir looked around to the suddenly hazy, lightly obscured environment, and realized that there were perhaps some problems that could not be solved by the liberal application of stabbing. That being barred, he could not be insistent nor attempt to be charismatic and have the issue get resolved, nor could he take to a rousing speech in heavily inflected English. This simply was, whatever it was, and that was that. The problem was that there had been a couple of atmospheric disturbances lately that has signaled something awful was about to occur; the fog that blanketed The Regent's Park, the freak storm with red lightning on the water, the wind that had just taken Ludwig, and this haze just seemed very suspicious. Vladimir was not happy about this, but nothing from his repertoire of Bazhooli-ness could do anything about it. Hence, he could only continue with the mission. With only the slightest amount of regret, Vlad put his knives away.

"Da. Vill dearly me missed. Good man. Good, strange man. Much loss today." He gestured his arms out to his sides, as if contemplating a hug but thinking the wiser of it. The open and often physical expression of emotion from the Circus was simply not the custom here. "Am thanking you for help, Lady Crypt. For please, get rope on that end and push. I get exprire-ed man on shoulders. Then if you vould, please go ahead of me and make nice vith church people. Vould not do for tall, powerful foreign man to enter house of God vith body making reqvests. You are having Britishness! Are speaking langvige! I might offend." Naturally, as the only requirement he was given was to get him to holy ground, Vlad was tempted to hurl his corpse on the other side of the fence and hope no one noticed until they could retrieve the Grand Duchess. But... that might be a tiny bit disrespectful. So no dice.

While walking around to the side of his noble stallion, Tolstoy(!), Vladimir quietly asked of Virginia, "Psst... Who is friend?" jerking his head back in the direction of the as of yet silent man accompanying her.

In 🦄 Machiavellian Masquerade - Chapter 1 → 5 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Dr. Swamp
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Location: Shadowell Manor: Attic (Laboratory)
Skills: Intelligence
Hit Points: 2
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Swamp paused for a second or two, his gloved hands in position to separate an exposed ribcage as Amaranthine began to play. It was very different than the music that she had performed earlier. Forceful, almost frenzied in its execution, but balanced with sweeping sections of powerful melody. It was invigorating. The Doctor gave a smile of approval that, thanks to his surgical mask, could only be seen in his eyes. Realizing this, he bowed his head in the direction of the Chanteuse, then continued at his task with renewed gusto. "Autopsy Music, indeed..." he crooned, taking a pair of heavy-bladed shears to the more stubborn of ribs. A few unsavory popping sounds later (obscured but not quite negated by the music) and Swamp had removed the front of the man's chestplate altogether. He set it aside, picked up a smallish, sharp blade, and dove in. He barely seemed to notice the lights flickering off, though he did mumble a quiet thanks as the oil lamps were lit.

One might see the slight sway of the Doctor as he moved, directed not only by his instinct and experience, but by the music floating as an almost tangible thing around him. As he switched from one tool to another, one might observe a slight flourish to his movements; in a couple of instances he stopped working altogether to gesture his gloved, bloodstreaked hands in time to the melody. The Doctor operated with speed, skill, and surety, occasionally collecting fluids from within the cadaver.

The Doctor located and spread out a series of metal bowls upon the table next to the ex-person and began to relieve him of his internals in a meticulous, very orderly fashion. This was no mere butchery, this was the proficient work of a steady hand and keen mind, led by rare and recorded experience. Every organ from the man's torso with only essential tissues eventually found their way into the bowls, one at a time, still warm-ish and colored with the tint of a recently vacated vitality. "...on the one hand," he mumbled, "I should want to have drained the ichors from the late Lord's remains... Hmm. Though I shan't fear a little extra splatter for the sake of expedience." Though he mentioned splatter, there was little if anything at all in the way of arterial blood decorating his coat. It was uncertain if he was speaking to himself or to someone in the room, but he at least seemed to be enjoying the moment. Once the song ended, he addressed Amaranthine with a polite clap and an intonation of, "Glorious."

Wishing to confirm his suspicions from the external examination first, Swamp opened Lord Bardolf's heart. It took precious little time before he excitedly clapped his tools to the table and gave an enthusiastic, "Ah-HA!" He pulled his mask down and called over their chaperone for the occasion, "Quinton! Quinton, my good man..." Whether he moved to join him or not, Swamp was excitedly explaining what he had uncovered. "Now, if you observe this about his hands - and pay attention to the fingertips here, this is important and I shall explain why in a moment - and look at the discoloration in his sclera," Swamp pulled back an eyelid to allow view, "But this, sir," he said, motioning to the externalized heart, "Observe. Do you see what I see? Quinton, dear sir, the cause of your Master's death..." He leaned in close, whispering the answer to the larger man with a sense of solemn quiet. The Doctor straightened back up, eyes locked with Quinton as he gave a slow, serious, affirming nod. "I am certain of it."

He swiftly turned to Amaranthine, "Thank you, Chanteuse, so much for your assistance. It was invaluable. Inspired. Madame?" he gave a quick glance around and leaned in, relating the cause of death to her as well. Perhaps he was being paranoid with his secrecy. Or perhaps he was just being cautious. This kind of thing, if it were to be believed, could have a lasting impression on the remainder of their stay.

"If I could, Mr. Quinton? I would like to see what else I may determine, if anything."

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